


Prince Charming

by withthepilot



Series: Prince Charming [1]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Bodyguard, M/M, Royalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-31
Updated: 2010-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-14 06:19:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthepilot/pseuds/withthepilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCoy has been Jim's personal bodyguard since he was a teenager. Now the young prince is all grown up and wants more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prince Charming

**Author's Note:**

> AU set in a fantasy constitutional monarchy with a fair bit of crack. Likely chock-full of inaccuracies related to the lives of royalty.

"Hey, Bones. Bones."

"For the millionth time, Jim. What?"

"It's my birthday."

Jim grins at him from across the room, fixed in place on a raised platform as Chekov sticks pins everywhere in the kid's fine Italian suit. McCoy lets out an annoyed huff and slouches further on the couch, flicking his gaze between Jim and the curly-haired tailor, who's busy worrying pins between his teeth and flitting in circles around Jim. It's difficult to look away from Jim, the amused crinkles next to his eyes as he smiles impishly...but McCoy doesn't want to give him the satisfaction of a lengthy stare.

"Yeah, kid, I'm well aware. Why do you think we're here, getting you fitted for—oh, right—a _birthday_ party?"

Jim pouts instead of replying. McCoy is surprised, frankly, that Jim doesn't have some kind of smart-aleck comeback. Even the eagle-eyed tailor peers up at the kid curiously, likely expecting a veritable torrent of words that never comes.

"Mr. Chekov," McCoy says on an exasperated breath. "How we doing here? I gotta take the kid back to his mother by one to taste cakes, or she'll have my balls."

"Just one more little..." Chekov trails off, mumbling to himself as he inserts two more pins into the cuff of Jim's jacket. "Okay! I am done!" he exclaims, then, stepping back and nodding, his curls going every which way. "The suit will be ready by five."

McCoy stands up, pulling his coat back on. "Five?" he repeats, eyebrow arched. Chekov wilts a little.

"Four," he amends. "Ready by four. I can do that."

Jim yawns loudly and slips out of the jacket, handing it to Chekov. McCoy exhales as he watches Jim roll up his sleeves and step off the platform. If he didn't know better, he'd say he graduated from being Jim's personal bodyguard to being his personal assistant somewhere along the line; probably some time after the kid turned sixteen. Jim was a gangly halfwit then, the way most teenagers are, thinking they know everything when they can't even tell their asses from their elbows. As of today, however, Jim is twenty-one and looks every bit of it, from his sculpted body to his masculine jaw and long limbs. He sure did grow into his body somewhere along the way. Again, McCoy makes sure not to look too often.

"Good man," McCoy says to Chekov. "I'll send Sulu at four." The Russian tailor is already waving them off and getting to work. McCoy goes to Jim and guides him out with a careful hand on the small of his back. "Come on, Prince Charming."

"But Bones, it's my birthday," Jim says again as they walk outside. There are some people milling around, trying to take photos, but luckily Sulu's waiting for them right outside, and he quickly opens the back door of the town car for them. McCoy looks around to make sure they're safe and then exchanges a small salute with Sulu. He hustles Jim into the backseat and follows behind.

"Jim, did you turn into some kind of parrot when the clock struck midnight? Because I swear to—"

"You don't remember," Jim sighs. He buckles his seatbelt and McCoy does the same.

"Remember _what_?" McCoy huffs, frustrated. "Remember that it's your birthday? Of course I remember. The moment I _got_ this job, it officially became the most important day of the year for me." Because as far as things go with the Kirk family, nothing is more important than Queen Winona's son having the best fucking birthday ever on an annual fucking basis. McCoy supposes he can understand all the fuss; if his dad died on the day he was born, he'd want something fun and distracting every year to help take the edge off, too.

"But you don't remember what you _said_ ," Jim clarifies. He's staring out the window now, frowning deeply. If he's still frowning like that by the time they get back to the palace, Winona's going to be _pissed_. McCoy notices Sulu glancing back at them curiously through the rearview mirror. He scowls until the driver looks away, though he can't erase the amused look on Sulu's face.

"For Christ's sake, Jim. What I said _when_? I don't know what you're talking about."

Jim looks up in Sulu's direction furtively before leaning in and lowering the volume of his voice. "You said, _Bones_ , back when I was seventeen, _Bones_ , that when I turned twenty-one, you would have sex with me. _Bones_."

McCoy sputters and coughs into his fist. He's really glad that the car hasn't made any sharp turns in the past ten seconds.

"Jim, I did _not_ —"

"Yes, you did!" Jim insists. "I asked you. You said, 'Not until you're twenty-one.' I said, 'Okay, Bones.'"

McCoy grits his teeth, looking out the window. "You didn't say 'okay' at all; you bitched and moaned and drank an entire bottle of Chambord."

"Yeah, and then I left you alone for _four years_." Jim runs his hand through his poofy hair—how does he manage to look so damn dignified with such poofy hair?—and then gestures to himself. "And now I'm twenty-one. The day of reckoning has come."

Day of reckoning, indeed. McCoy runs a palm over his face and closes his eyes briefly. He really hopes to high heaven that Sulu can't hear any of this.

"I remember, Jim. And what I said was that I would _consider_ it. And now that I'm doing so, I'm telling you outright: no."

"But why?!" Jim asks, face contorted.

"Because it's _inappropriate_ , Jim. I'm your bodyguard. I'm an employee of the royal family. It's my job to _protect_ you, not bed you." As if the kid's not getting enough practice in the sack, anyway. It seems like every time McCoy picks up a tabloid lately, Jim's face and some hot young thing's bare thigh are plastered in full color all over the front page. He doesn't dare to look and see what's on the inside pages. It's silly that Jim would want to bother with him. It's some kind of misplaced hero worship, an old childhood crush that Jim won't let die, for whatever reason. It's nothing. "I'm thirty, I'm an old man, and I just want to do my job and do it well."

"Ugh, you and your 'old man' crap." Jim grumbles, cupping his chin in his palm as he glares out the window. "I dunno why I need a bodyguard anymore anyway," he grouses. "I'm a grown man now."

"Because you're royalty, Jim, and royalty needs safeguarding. Your mother has her own security detail, and even your dad had a bodyguard."

 _For all the good it did him_ , McCoy thinks distantly, but doesn't dare say.

He's lost in his thoughts for a while before he realizes that the kid hasn't said anything in at least four minutes, which has to be some kind of a record. McCoy exhales and lightly nudges Jim's knee.

"Your mom's throwing you a great party, kid. As usual," he adds. "Be happy."

"Maybe I've outgrown parties," Jim mutters into his folded hand. "Maybe I'm not such a kid anymore."

He looks out the window and purses his lips, falling silent. McCoy resolves not to give in and look over at Jim, but finally, he can't help it. He's struck by the shadows that play along Jim's face, the way they blend into the pale hue of his skin. They contrast with the sheen of Jim's irises, so bright they're practically neon. There's a scar by the corner of Jim's mouth—a childhood accident, the royal physician, M'Benga, explained to McCoy, when he first started watching over Jim—and the curve of it echoes the slope of his jaw, held firm and tight in resentment, speckled all over with stubble. Winona will insist that Jim take a shave before the party. She's waiting for them with Chef Scott right now, likely with eighteen flavors of cake for Jim to sample and then dismiss, one at a time.

McCoy clears his throat, busies himself with checking his phone for messages. He turns away from Jim and doesn't dare to look again.

"You'll have fun," he says gruffly.

Jim doesn't answer and McCoy leaves it at that. He can't blame the kid; he's not much for parties, either.

*

McCoy spies Jim sulking in Winona's prize rose garden about forty minutes later, around the same time that Jim _should_ be off with his mother, tasting a myriad of cakes that Chef Scott has likely slaved over for days. The kid looks like someone's steamrolled his puppy, and that's no way for someone to feel on his birthday, even if Jim is the definition of _royal pain_.

He's about to go over when he gets a message, summoning him to the kitchen. When McCoy gets there, Winona and Scotty are arguing next to a table loaded with cakes. There's got to be at least twenty of them, all crowded together.

"I told you, I can't eat refined sugar, I'm on a strict—oh, Leonard!" Winona exclaims. She motions for him to come over and kisses his cheek. Winona can be a bit daffy at times, but she's a shrewd woman and she's beloved by all. Hell, she's the queen. And she's young enough that Jim may never be king, but something has always told McCoy that Jim might prefer it that way. "Leonard, pick one of these cakes for tonight, will you? Jim refuses to try any of them."

"I prefer pie," McCoy says. Both Winona and Scotty give him withering looks. He holds up his hands. "Okay, okay. Fine."

Fifteen minutes later and he's full of cake, some of which he didn't even like. Scotty's getting a little too experimental for his tastes.

"I dunno," he says. He points to a cake at random: lemon ginger. "That one."

"Are you sure, McCoy?" Scotty asks. "Jimmy's never picked out lemon before. Have his tastes changed, then?"

"Well, he's a grown man, now," McCoy says, repeating Jim's words from earlier. He's not quite sure he believes them, but they sound good in this particular situation. "He's probably got a more sophisticated palate, now that he's in his twenties. But hell, if you want to play it safe, the chocolate one's good, too."

"What about the coconut?" Scotty asks.

"Jim's allergic to coconut," McCoy and Winona both say in unison. They exchange a surprised look that eases into twin smiles.

They take their leave from the kitchen and walk out to the balcony together, where McCoy can see Jim clearly in the rose garden. He's not outwardly sulking anymore but chattering on the phone instead, likely to one of his idiot friends who's meant to attend the festivities—Kevin or Gary, or Tweedle-Dum and Tweedle-Dee, whatever their names are. They're spoiled punks, as far as McCoy's concerned. Spock, the royal butler, hates them, too; he constantly has to clean up after those pricks when they come and do their damnedest to destroy the palace. McCoy has to hand it to Spock and his unending reserve of poise and restraint. At least McCoy's only job is to watch after Jim, and that alone is enough to keep a man occupied, 24/7.

"He's unhappy," Winona observes, pulling McCoy from his reverie. "Any idea why?"

"How would I know?" McCoy answers, maybe a bit too defensively. Winona smirks and leans against the stone railing.

"Oh, I don't know. Because you live in his back pocket?" She turns to him with an impish grin, the same one that Jim was flashing back at Chekov's shop. Damn Kirks and their beautiful hereditary smiles. "And because he has a massive unrequited crush on his bodyguard?"

McCoy can _feel_ himself turn twelve shades of pink. "Your Highness, please," he implores quietly.

"How many times do I have to tell you to call me Win?" she huffs. "Honestly. I never would have married George if I'd realized that my name would be replaced with 'Your Highness' for the rest of my life."

McCoy grunts, though he can't help a small smile. "He's confused," he simply says, going back to the subject at hand.

"I doubt it. You know Jim, when he has his heart set on something..."

"And how do you know he's got his heart set on me?"

Winona tilts her head slowly. "I got the picture the night Jim sneaked into my bedroom, drunk off his head, and gave me an entire speech about how his sexy, dreamboat bodyguard was the love of his life."

"That never happened," McCoy says, his eyes narrowing. "Did it? I would have known."

"Even you have to sleep sometimes, Leonard," Winona replies. Her eyes sparkle in the sunlight. "There are some things I know about Jim that you don't. Not many at this point, but a few."

"Uh huh," McCoy says grumpily. He slides his hands into his trouser pockets. "Well, you don't seem too unhappy about it, I gotta say."

"Because I'm thrilled! You're loyal and trustworthy and I already know you love Jim. God knows the last thing I want is for him to end up with one of those—those _people_ he cavorts with all the time. They're only out to use him up and spit him out. Jim is smart as a whip, but he doesn't yet seem to understand that being royalty means you have to protect yourself." She gives him a small yet guilt-laden smile. "That's probably my fault. I've spent his whole life trying to make up for what happened to George. I've spoiled him."

"You did a fine job," McCoy says. "Even if he is a royal pain in the ass." They both laugh faintly and McCoy glances down at Jim again, who's still fiddling with his phone. "I mean, you're right, Win. I do. I just... It's hard to switch gears like that. Keeping an eye on Jim is my _job_." He pauses and gives Winona a strange look. "You do realize how bizarre it is that you're giving me your blessing, don't you, Win?"

"Well, you're stubborn, Leonard. Someone had to do it."

Winona touches McCoy's arm and moves to go back inside the palace. He stops her, turning suddenly.

"Ah...tell Chef Scott to go with the chocolate. It's Jim's favorite. Better not to take a chance."

"You would know," Winona says, smiling indulgently. McCoy feels his cheeks heat up again.

"And his suit'll be ready at four," he adds. "I told Sulu to—"

"Okay, Leonard, that's fine. I trust you." She points a finger at him. "Just make sure that Jim shaves. He looks like a hobo."

McCoy laughs and nods, looking down at Jim in the rose garden again. The kid is lean and self-assured and clean-cut as all get out, and he looks _nothing_ like a hobo. Plus, McCoy won't admit it out loud, but the stubble is kind of sexy. He decides to ignore his orders just this one time and leave the kid alone. When McCoy hears Scotty grumbling in the kitchen shortly after, over the "bloody royal family that can't make up its mind," he whistles and pretends not to notice.

*

A half hour before the party is meant to begin, McCoy finds himself standing awkwardly outside of Jim's bedroom. Everything is ready and waiting downstairs for the birthday boy, the guests beginning to file in, both old drunks and young drunks. McCoy suspects that Spock has indulged in a hit of Valium to keep his cool throughout the evening that lies ahead. If so, he didn't think to share, the cold-blooded bastard.

McCoy leans his forehead against the wall and feels the low, thumping bass of whatever god-awful music Jim is listening to. He figures this can go one of two ways: Either he leaves right now and doesn't say a word, and prepares himself for hours of drunken debauchery that may or may not end with Jim fully clothed in the duck pond, or he knocks on that door and mans up to his undeniable feelings for the kid.

He looks down at his navy coat and sighs. It's a really nice coat—a gift from the Kirks. It would be a damn shame to get it wet.

McCoy takes a deep breath and lifts his fist, about to rap firmly on the door. Before he can do so, the music stops, the door opens, and Jim's poofy head pops out of the room.

"What are you doing?" Jim asks.

"I was, uh...making sure you were ready," McCoy answers. He stands up stiffly and clears his throat. "So...you ready?"

"Almost. Wanna help me with my tie?"

"Sure, Jim."

Jim, of course, looks ridiculously handsome in that one-of-a-kind suit, tailored specifically for him by Chekov, who's a goddamn artist with a needle and thread. The tie, a maroon silk number, is hanging open from his collar. Jim just stands there expectantly, waiting for McCoy to go over there and take matters into his own hands, as it were. McCoy takes another breath and hopes that Jim can't tell how shaky it is.

"You look nice, kid," he says. He steps closer and gingerly touches the tie, lifting one end into his hand. McCoy keeps his eyes down as he begins to work on the knot. "Ready for all the excitement?"

"Between you and me, Bones?" Jim asks. "I'd rather just get into bed and sleep through the whole thing."

Jim laughs faintly at his own remark; he sounds dejected and tired. McCoy doesn't know how to respond, other than to get on his high horse and remind Jim that he can't bail on his own birthday party—not after so many people bent over backwards to make it extra special for him, even if they are on the royal payroll. But Jim doesn't need to hear any of that, so McCoy doesn't say anything. He presses his lips together tightly and concentrates on making a good knot. The first attempt looks lousy, so he mutters a curse under his breath and tries again. Jim lets out another laugh and it's softer this time, lighter.

"Hey, Bones," Jim says. "Remember my fourteenth birthday?"

One corner of McCoy's mouth quirks into a smile. How could he forget? It was the first time that he'd been around for Jim's birthday, and only his third week on the job as the young prince's bodyguard. Up until that point, McCoy was _terrified_ of fucking up somehow. It was a good job; Jim was a mouthy brat even then, but he was obviously bright as hell and fun to be around and McCoy had a nice, furnished room all to himself right down the hall, smack dab in the middle of a fucking royal _palace_ , and he wanted to hang onto this gig like grim death. On Jim's birthday, Winona went all out, as McCoy would soon learn she always did, and the royal gardens were transformed into a veritable amusement park, complete with rides, games, and horseback rides for all.

Jim, likely looking to break in his new bodyguard with some kind of demented test, made McCoy go on the Ferris wheel with him. Then the ride with the spinning cars that whipped around real fast. Then this pendulous, overgrown torture device that sent them swaying to and fro, over and over, nearly flipping their seats upside-down a few times.

"I may throw up on you," McCoy groaned to Jim, halfway through the pendulum ride. He managed to hold it in until the ride was over. Winona's begonias were never the same.

"Of course," McCoy says, shaking his head. "Those begonias came out of my paycheck."

"Yeah," Jim says, laughing. "And you were all, 'Damn it, Jim, I'm gonna break every bone in your twiggy little body!'" He imitates McCoy with a rough drawl that's a lot lower in pitch than it was back when Jim was fourteen. McCoy suppresses a small shiver.

"And after that, I was 'Bones' for life," he murmurs, finishing the knot.

"That's the story," Jim says. He peers down at the tie and smiles. "Thanks, Bones. Looks good."

"Yeah, it does," McCoy says quietly. "Real good."

He runs his fingers lightly over the knot, which rests perfectly against the hollow of Jim's throat. And even though something is still nagging at him that this isn't right and he damn well _shouldn't_ , McCoy lets his fingertips travel slowly up the side of Jim's neck to his handsome face, trailing over the hint of stubble that he's wanted to touch all day—that it would break his heart to see shaven away at this stage. His palm ends up cradling Jim's jaw line, his thumb sweeping over the crescent of Jim's cheekbone, and he hears Jim gasp just a tiny bit at the contact and—

"Bones." Jim grips McCoy's wrist and licks his lips, looking both nervous and hopeful at once. "What are—"

"Just...shut up for a second, okay, kid? Just shut your mouth for one damn second. Jesus, you've been talking nonstop for seven goddamn _years_. And now here I am, trying to kiss you, and you can't even—"

" _Bones_ ," Jim says again, laughing. "If I have to wait another four years for you to actually kiss me, I'm gonna be ticked."

"Damn it, Jim."

So, McCoy kisses him. He pushes his fingers back into Jim's ridiculous, poofy hair and curls them tight. He pulls Jim close, and kisses the living hell out of him. And it's fucking fantastic. Glorious. Everything he didn't know he wanted. Funny how Jim knew way before he did; the kid really is sharp. They both tilt their heads to deepen the kiss and their tongues duel for a few hot-wet-slick moments until McCoy pushes his way inside Jim's mouth. It feels like heaven, like home, and he doesn't even realize that he's steering Jim back toward his lavish, king-sized bed until they fall onto the mattress together. Jim's eager hands are suddenly everywhere, wrenching off McCoy's coat and going for his shirt buttons. McCoy reaches down between Jim's legs and presses the heel of his hand against the warm hardness there. It's Jim's answering moan that breaks the spell momentarily.

"Jim," McCoy whispers, looking up. "Everyone's waiting. You really wanna be late for your own party, Prince Charming?"

"They can wait," Jim says breathlessly, grinning. He undoes McCoy's perfect knot and somehow, it looks even more perfect this way. "They've got booze and all that cake... They don't need me. Plus, every year, I show up on time and it sucks. So I'll try something different this year."

McCoy can't quibble with that kind of logic, so he leans in and kisses Jim again. He doesn't want to downplay Jim's birthday; it has been and probably always will be the most important date on McCoy's personal calendar. But as they undress and slide warmly against each other, McCoy silently hopes that Jim will limit all of his future celebrations to something a little more low-key—small, private affairs that involve only one cake, zero rides, and a guest list of two. He would argue that it's the grown-up thing to do.


End file.
